


I’m also just a boy. Standing in front of a boy. Asking him to love him.

by ggggnashville



Category: Notting Hill (1999), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Romantic Comedy, it's exactly what you think, it's sherlock and john instead of hugh grant and julia roberts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 16:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15889377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggggnashville/pseuds/ggggnashville
Summary: Do you also love Notting Hill and Sherlock Holmes? Great! I think I've got something you'll enjoy enormously.





	I’m also just a boy. Standing in front of a boy. Asking him to love him.

**Author's Note:**

> this is....quite literally...exactly what you think. the names are changed. careers are changed just enough. but it's just the exact plot of notting hill but instead of lesbian icons hugh grant and julia roberts, we have sherlock holmes and john watson. i just really like romcoms, making things gay, and sherlock holmes, there are really no excuses for my actions. i have loved william thacker and john watson both since i was a teen, this is the result of that. you do not have to have seen notting hill to enjoy this fic. to the reverse end, you also don't have to have watched bbc sherlock to enjoy the plot of notting hill! it's fun for everyone involved, though it will be the Most fun if you've seen both.

Just down the street from his little flat in London, John Watson owned a small but very endearing shop where he sold mystery novels. He loved mysteries best, and in fact had tried his hand at writing some of his own stories, though they hadn’t proven to be fruitful as of yet. He lived with a very erratic and strange little man named Phillip Anderson who was always going on about conspiracy theories and was so paranoid John wondered if he should perhaps try to find help for him at times. John had a sister who was recently divorced and recently out of AA. He had a friend named Molly who worked in a morgue and who was married to one Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and they both provided wonderfully gritty details for John’s stories.

John had medical and military experience, and a bullet wound in his left shoulder. After returning from his military service John had been unable to work as a surgeon (given the bullet wound) and he had far too much PTSD to be any help to others. So John had opened a bookshop. John had all of these things. What he didn’t have was much purpose. John tried to pour himself into his little stories and his little shop, but he didn’t feel strongly or passionately about either. The shop was good. His friends were good. Life was mostly okay. But that was it. It was just okay. If John was honest with himself, he missed the war. He missed saving lives. But he couldn’t go back to either.

 

 

John woke up early, after a night of tossing and turning, as he had every day for the past six months. Since he had returned from Afghanistan he’d hardly gone a full night without waking up a handful of times. The dreams were hard on him.

John got up out of bed and began to get ready to open shop. He showered, shaved, and made his way downstairs to the kitchen, where Phillip was waiting for him.

“I have a date tonight,” Phillip said, turning to John. “I don’t know what to wear. Help me out?” The last time Phillip had had a date, John had locked himself in his bedroom for a full day, too afraid to see something that would cause him to have to bleach his eyes.

John sighed as he placed two pieces of bread into the toaster. He turned and leaned back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms across his chest.

“What are our options?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at Phillip.

Phillip clapped his hands together and then went into his bedroom only to return wearing a shirt for a band John had never had never heard of. “So what do you think?”

“What are you going for? This doesn’t exactly shout romance.” John said, sipping his coffee. Phillip nodded and went back into his bedroom as John’s toast popped up. Phillip came back out wearing a wrinkled but nicely neutral button up.

“Much better. Proving you can clean up alright,” John said, nodding. Phillip winked, then jumped up a bit in excitement. He took all day to get ready for dates. He said it wasn’t just a matter of looking nice. He had to fully concentrate on the woman he was going to be seeing. “Wish me luck!” he called across the flat.

“Good luck,” John said with a sigh, biting into his toast.

John finished breakfast and pulled his jacket on. The shop opened at nine every morning and closed at seven every evening. He ran the shop with the landlord of the property, Mrs. Hudson. She was a very sweet older woman who often treated John like a son. He was very lucky to have found her. The real problem was that the shop hardly made any money. John didn’t know how sustainable the shop really was, but he would deal with that when he had to. For now, John took everything just one day at a time.

John hung his jacket up in the back office and Mrs. Hudson came through the back just as John flipped the sign in the window to “Open.”

“Morning Mrs. H,” he said as she patted him on the shoulder.

“Morning John! Have you checked the sales yet?” she asked eagerly, hoping for good news.

“Just about to check.” John rolled up his sleeves and then began to do the math. He scrunched up his nose as he looked at the numbers. “We’re down this month,” he said, frowning at the calculations.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson cooed. “Would you like me to make you a nice cuppa? Ease the pain a bit?”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” John said, biting his bottom lip.

Just as Mrs. Hudson headed to the kettle, the shop’s door opened.

John looked up to see the first customer of the day, and was surprised to find that the man who had stepped inside looked very familiar. John’s brows pulled together as he tried to place the face. The man had dark curly hair, sharp eyes, and incredible cheekbones. Besides looking familiar, the man was absolutely gorgeous. John coughed into his fist to avoid gaping openly.

The man pulled a book off its shelf and opened it. He rolled his eyes, huffed, and then spun to the shelf to his right. As he did so, his coat whipped around him, and it was this gesture that made John realize just who he was looking at.

The man was named Sherlock Holmes and John had seen him on the front page of every newspaper and magazine in London. This man had saved the life of every member of Parliament as well as the Queen herself after there had been several attempted bombings. He was a detective, a proper genius, wildly famous, and he was skimming the titles of John’s mystery book shop. John’s face felt like it was on fire.

“Need help finding anything?” John asked, and miraculously his voice didn’t shake.

“The butler did it in this one. I can tell by the cover,” Sherlock Holmes stated, his voice deep and gravely floating across the shop.

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Oh please, it’s always the butler,” Sherlock said, placing the book back on the shelf.

“Well you know, that book isn’t really the greatest one. Might I suggest this instead?” John held up a title he had just finished the week before. “It’s a bit darker, but it takes a great turn, I had no clue how it would end.” John shot him a smile, and Sherlock smiled back with his hands clasped behind his back.

“The gardener did it,” Sherlock said simply with a nod. John raised his eyebrows and his mouth fell open. He blinked a few times then shook his head.

“How in hell could you know that just by looking at the cover?”

“Look at the cover, it’s got vines, flowers, and rose bushes all over it!” Sherlock said, flicking his wrist and waving the book away. John inspected the cover closely and then scoffed.

“Christ.”

“Mm, yes.”

John shook his head and then turned momentarily, only to see a man on the shop’s security camera with wild hair and a disheveled suit shoving a book down his trousers. John swore under his breath.

“Will you pardon me, for just one moment?” John asked Sherlock. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shrugged as John turned away.

John cleared his throat as he approached the thief. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway.

“Excuse me, but I do believe you have a book shoved down your trousers.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t have a book shoved down my trousers.” The man spoke quickly, his eyes bugging out of his head. John smirked at him, nodding as the man eyed him up.

“Right. Well. Bad news. We have security cameras and I did see you just put a book down your trousers. So. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to take the book out of your trousers and either put it back or purchase it. And if you don’t, I will gladly force you out of my shop. I returned from my military service just six months ago. Afghanistan. Trust me when I say I would love nothing more than for you to try something.” John didn’t stop smiling once as he spoke, and the man’s eyes grew more and more terrified. John had to bite down on a laugh. He wasn’t a large man, he knew he didn’t look intimidating in the least. But he did know what he was capable of. “So, I’m going to go back to the front counters now. See you shortly.” John turned back towards Sherlock, who was chuckling softly to himself. His laugh was a low rumble that was all sorts of beautiful and John hoped his blushing wasn’t too obvious.

The thief placed the book back on the counter, dusting it off with the back of his hand. When he made to leave the shop he finally noticed Sherlock and stopped in his tracks.

“Hi. Could I have your autograph?”

Sherlock huffed. “Sure. Why not?” He grabbed a pen off the counter and spun around until John handed him a piece of paper out of a spare notebook. Sherlock nodded his thanks then quickly scrawled a message onto the paper. “What’s your name?”

“Thanks! It’s Arthur.” the man said. Sherlock handed the paper over, and upon looking at it Arthur frowned. “What does it say?”

“It says Dear Arthur, you belong in jail.”

John coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Arthur turned bright red and left the shop immediately.

“I suppose I’ll take this one after all,” Sherlock said. It was the book with the vines on the cover. John knew Sherlock was just being kind but rang him up nonetheless and waved him out. As soon as the door closed John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and then put a hand to his mouth. Of all the people to walk into the shop today.

Mrs. Hudson came back from the back of the shop, completely oblivious to the encounter that had just taken place.

“You will never guess who just came into the shop,” John said, still trying to wrap his own mind around the encounter.

“Who was it?” Mrs. Hudson asked excitedly, setting down a freshly made cup of John’s favorite tea. “Was it someone famous? Oh John dear, could you imagine! Someone famous coming into the shop? Did you know that I once saw Elton John on the street? He smiled at me, he looked like he was very kind, though his glasses sort of made it difficult to see his eyes.”

Mrs. Hudson looked so impossibly excited that John just shook his head, deciding against telling her at the last moment.

“Oh no, no, just someone I knew from university,” he lied.

“Ah well, that would have been exciting though,” she said, smoothing out her skirt. Then she walked to the back of the shop to start sorting through the newly arrived books, the sound of her kitten heels a welcome comfort to John’s ears.

 

 

John left the shop that evening feeling rather odd. Something felt off, like he had unfinished business. On the way home he decided to stop for cup of tea and a cheese danish at the coffee shop across the street from his flat. He didn’t like to spend the extra money too often, the army pension only offering him so much, but figured he deserved it today. He had survived meeting someone who was essentially at movie star status without making a complete arse of himself.

John was only a few moments away from reaching his flat when he rounded a corner and found himself chest to chest with none other than Sherlock Holmes once again. Unfortunately, John’s tea had found its way onto Sherlock’s button down that probably cost more than what John’s bookshop made in a week.

“Oh….my God,” John said, mouth going dry as he fully comprehended what he had done. Sherlock was staring down at his ruined shirt, a quiet fury building in the very tall and very unpredictable man. “I’m so sorry,” John continued, and then reached out with a napkin he had thoughtlessly grabbed back at the coffee shop. As he was about to touch Sherlock’s shirt, hoping to help, Sherlock pushed his hand away.

“For God’s sake! Don’t touch me!”

John recoiled, then mumbled his apologies again, his horror mounting. He tried to hand Sherlock the napkin, but he was ignored in lieu of the damp shirt.

“Really, I’m so sorry. If you want, I have soap and towels at my flat. You can get cleaned up so that you don’t have to walk around London like this. Really, so sorry.”

Sherlock looked up from his shirt for the first time and his eyes met John’s. They were a lovely color, and John had to refrain himself from telling Sherlock so. John was sure he probably got that type of comment often enough, Sherlock really didn’t need to be told he had nice eyes from the man who had just spilled hot tea all over his shirt and coat.

“No, no, I’ll just get Mycroft to send me a car,” Sherlock said under his breath. Sherlock pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket and then swore under his breath. “Dead phone.”

“I’ve got a charger back at my flat as well. If you want?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then looked back at John and gave him a half smile. So he was annoyed but trying to reign it in. That was a good sign.

“Well where is it then? Your flat I mean.”

“It’s right there, the one with the red door,” John said, pointing across the street.

“Fine. Good. Might as well,” Sherlock said, throwing his arms up in irritation.

“Right. Follow me.”

John led the way into his flat. He unlocked the door with a shockingly steady hand and then immediately grew self-conscious as he took in the view of his cluttered flat. There were dishes in the sink and on the kitchen table, and there were some of Phillip’s clothes flung about. John frowned at the sight, but hid it as he turned towards Sherlock.

“The bathroom is just around the corner and to the left. Should be towels and everything in there.”

“Sure,” Sherlock said, then made his way into the bathroom. As soon as he was out of sight John ran to the sink and hurriedly tried to clean the dishes. He threw most of them into the dish washer and then began to wipe up the kitchen table. Just as the table was cleared Sherlock came back downstairs in a white t-shirt, holding the ruined button up and his coat over his arm.

“Looks like you’re all cleaned up.”

“Obviously, yes.”

John smiled in spite of himself and nodded. Sherlock was handsome, looking so ordinary with just a t-shirt on, a stark difference to the swish of the Belstaff and designer silk.

“Do you need a phone?”

“I found the charger on the way to the bathroom. A car will be here in a few minutes.”

“Right. Do you want anything before you go? Do you want a Coke? Or water? Tea? No, probably not tea.”

Sherlock gave John a tight smile. “No.”

“No? Okay,” John said, suddenly desperate to keep Sherlock around. “What about something to eat? I have…this danish. Or, or fruit?”

“No.”

“Of course. Well. In that case. I’ll show you out. But also, you’re extraordinary.” John felt his face go hot, and he shook his head, laughing at himself a little. “Sorry, it’s just that I figure this is my one chance to say it and you should hear it.”

“Ah. Thank you. I was just doing my job. But thank you.”

Sherlock looked down at his shoes for the briefest of moments. He almost seemed embarrassed by the compliment, which only made John blush harder. John gestured towards the door and Sherlock followed.

“It was so good to meet you. I actually still can’t believe it’s you but nonetheless. It’s terrific to meet you.”

John held out a hand and Sherlock shook it. Sherlock’s hand was warm and steady and John had a brief and wild fantasy of pulling Sherlock closer to him. But he didn’t. Instead, John opened the door for Sherlock and Sherlock walked out. John shut the door with a definitive thud, and felt as though he were shutting the door on an entire future.

“Jesus,” John whispered to himself, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe it’s you? What the fuck was I thinking?” John was really beginning to loathe himself, but was stopped from continuing down rabbit hole of self-hatred when the doorbell rang. John thought himself crazy for thinking it might be Sherlock again but flung the door back open anyway. To his shock, it was indeed the famous detective. John huffed out a laugh.

“I believe I left a pack of cigarettes in your bathroom,” Sherlock said, mouth pulling up into a grin.

“Of course. Let me go get them.”

John rounded the corner, saw the pack of cigarettes on the lip of the sink, and grabbed them. Sherlock held a hand out when he saw them and John handed them over, feeling more flustered than ever.

“I’m so sorry about the….’can’t believe it’s you’ bit. It was all a bit…odd.”

“No worries,” Sherlock said, eyebrows pulling up. “I thought you spilling hot tea all over me was the really low bit.”

John let out a laugh, wishing that Sherlock were any other person. If he were anyone else, he could simply ask him on a date. But that wasn’t the case. If he asked the great Sherlock Holmes on a date it would appear as though John wanted to date him _because_ he was famous. That was the worst bit. Sherlock had done something incredible, and now his picture lit up every television screen and his face was plastered on every newspaper. John didn’t care about any of that. He was only interested in the very handsome and sharp witted man approximately six inches in front of his face. The famous bit was actually putting quite a damper on things.

It was as though Sherlock read John’s mind. The next thing John knew, Sherlock was kissing him. It wasn’t aggressive or filled with passion. It was soft, and sweet, and shockingly chaste. John was in too much shock for it to be anything but chaste. His hands stayed on his own hips for the duration of the kiss, and God did he want to kick himself for that.

When Sherlock pulled away, John wanted to pull him back in. He wanted to do anything to make this man stay in his foyer, but John was frozen. He cleared his throat, but got no farther than that when the sound of keys in the front door jarred him enough to move.

“Christ,” John said, running a hand down his face. This was really horrible timing. “That would be my flatmate Phillip. I’m so sorry. There’s no excuse at all for him.”

Phillip came through the door carrying a bag of groceries.

“I’m going to put this away but John! I have been doing some research and I must tell you! I think that most recent case Greg was telling us about must have been something other than a simple robbery. I really think it could have been much more planned out than the Yard is letting on. Remember that string of petty thefts last month? Well, I have a theory--” Phillip began, then sighed. “Of course it could all be nothing but I’m not going to just sit around and wait for the possibility to manifest!”  The bags of groceries fell to the kitchen floor and a handful of apples spun across the hardwood. Phillip walked straight into his bedroom and didn’t look back. He had somehow, miraculously, not noticed Sherlock at all, which seemed impossible but given Phillip always being so in his own head was very probable.

After Phillip walked away, Sherlock turned back to John. He smiled stiffly and kept his hands clasped behind his back. It was as though he hadn’t just kissed John and given him a mild heart attack.

“I think it’s best if you don’t mention what just happened to your flatmate,” Sherlock said.

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of telling him. I’ll keep this to myself and honestly, I probably won’t believe myself half the time.”

Sherlock let out a soft laugh, both horribly endearing and endlessly frustrating. He nodded, then opened the front door again and as quickly as he had come back into John’s life (brief as it was) he was gone again.

 

 

 

 

*

After the whole kissing in the hallway incident, John found himself looking up Sherlock Holmes and the hundreds of success stories and solved cases thanks to the great detective. It was honestly daunting. The man had been working with Scotland Yard long before he had done the whole saving royalty bit, and he also had a website that listed all of the cases he had solved outside of the Yard as well. The website was a bit pompous as well as silly. Sherlock listed his solved cases right alongside an essay on over two hundred different types of tobacco ash. John chuckled to himself as he read the through, amazed that such an intelligent man would think that anyone would find this remotely interesting but was entirely endeared nonetheless.

Eventually, Phillip joined John in this venture. Despite Phillip walking right past Sherlock Holmes earlier in the day, he knew almost everything there was to know about the man.

“He’s an absolute genius,” Phillip gushed as John clicked through link after link. “Can you imagine, someone out there today probably got to talk to the bloke in the flesh? What I wouldn’t give for just thirty seconds of his time!”

“Yeah,” John said, nodding along. “He is fairly extraordinary.”

 

 

*

 

The next few days at the bookshop seemed to drag by. John grew quickly frustrated by customers. He even had a few that seemed to not have read the sign out above the shop that read “Mystery Book Shop.”

“Do you have the new romance novel by Nicholas Sparks?” asked a man in a three piece suit. John looked up from the desk and did his best not to roll his eyes.

“Unfortunately no, because we only sell mysteries here.”

“Right,” said the man. “What about Tolkien?”

“Again,” John said, clenching his teeth, “we only have mystery books here.”

“Alright. What about Winnie the Pooh?”

John clenched and unclenched his fist, then called out to Mrs. Hudson. He rubbed at the back of his neck, the tension there growing, and tried not think about Sherlock Holmes.

 

*

Late one Sunday afternoon, when the shop was closed and there was no telly to watch, John found himself up on their building’s roof with Phillip. He did a crossword absentmindedly while Phillip looked around all of London with a pair of binoculars.

“Any messages today?” John asked. Their flat had a landline that Phillip insisted upon. He was part of so many bizarre clubs and neighborhood watches, and he felt he needed multiple means of contact.

Phillip shrugged. “I wrote a couple down.”

“So there were messages. There were two.”

“Yes. One of them was this bloke named Holmes. Just a few days ago. Sorry, it slipped my mind completely. He didn’t specify anything.

John tried not to panic immediately. He coughed into his fist and nodded.

“What did he say?”

“Well it was rather odd. And it all came off a little rude if I can be honest. But he said ‘Hello, it’s Holmes. Call me at the Ritz. Then called himself a completely different name. Said his name was Basil. Very odd.”

John immediately forgot all about Phillip. He forgot he was on the roof, and he forgot the time and day. Basil was the name of the gardener in the damned book Sherlock had bought. John’s mind went wild, and he could only see Sherlock’s face as he leaned in to kiss him. His eyes closed and mouth gone soft. John sighed into the thought, then came back to his senses. He had to call the Ritz.

John ran down the stairs and back into the flat. He dialed the Ritz on his mobile and bit at nails, nerves taking over. He tried to rationalize: he’d dated plenty of men and women throughout his life. Many very beautiful, very smart, and very kind people. John tried not to be intimidated to no avail.

The hotel gave him a bit of a hard time. The message was in fact a few days late. But as soon as John said the name ‘Basil’ they put him through to Sherlock.

“Hello?” Sherlock’s voice said through the phone. It was just as deep and lovely as the first time John had heard it, and John found himself with a grin plastered across his face.

“Hi. Hi it’s. Um. It’s John. John Watson. I own the…bookshop?” It seemed that John had suddenly forgotten how to speak.

“It didn’t seem as though you were going to call me back. Playing it cool I see,” Sherlock said, and panic seized John once again.

“No. No, I’m definitely not one for playing it cool. Certainly not under these circumstances. My flatmate. You might recall. He never gave me the message.” Sherlock hummed into the phone, almost agitated but John pushed through anyway. “Perhaps I could pop round for tea later, or something?” John asked hopefully.

“That would do,” Sherlock said. “How about tomorrow morning? Let’s say ten?”

John would normally open the shop on Monday mornings. He would usually check on sales and have tea with Mrs. Hudson. It all fell away, melted out of John’s mind completely.

“That sounds perfect,” John said. Mrs. Hudson would cover. Or the shop could be closed. It could be closed indefinitely. It didn’t matter.

Sherlock gave John a floor and room number. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sherlock said. And then the line went dead.

“Bye,” John said dumbly into the dial tone.

 

 

John was riddled with nerves as ten am approached. He thought about bringing Sherlock flowers or chocolates or something but the whole idea made him feel a bit childish. And besides, Sherlock did not seem the type to enjoy played out sentimental gesture. John thought maybe a pack of cigarettes would be more appreciated. Perhaps a very strong cup of coffee?  John threw away the idea of bringing some token of appreciation all together.

John made his way over to the hotel, clenching and unclenching his fist the entire time trying to contain his nervousness.

John made his way into the elevator and to his shock Greg Lestrade was there. John hadn’t spoken to Greg in about a week, and Greg looked just as surprised to see John as John was to see him.

“What floor?” John asked, smirking a little.

“Three.”

“Me too.”

“What are the chances?”

John pressed the button and the elevator doors shut.

They rode up to the third floor in relative silence. Greg commented on the weather. John wanted to say more, to not be impolite, but he was already so nervous he could hardly concentrate. When they left walked out of the elevator Greg followed closely behind John. They reached the door that John was certain Sherlock had told him, and John tried to feel only slightly embarrassed.

“Are you sure this is you?”

“Yeah?” Greg said, raising his eyebrows. John shrugged and knocked.

A woman with blond hair opened the door and smiled wide at the both of them.

“Detective!” she said. “I see you’ve brought a friend.”

“Uh, sort of?” Greg said, but before he could elaborate the woman ushered them both inside.

Once inside the room, John realized he was surrounded by other members of the Yard. He had spoken with most of these people before, some of them he had seen at a party Greg and Molly were throwing. Greg made his rounds and began making small talks with the other investigators. John stood in the middle of the room, confusion clouding his every thought. John tapped the blond woman on the shoulder and she turned to him.

“I’m John Watson. I think he might be expecting me.” No clarification was needed. The woman’s mouth turned up into a smile but it mostly appeared that she was trying not to laugh at John.

“Sure, I’ll go check,” she said, and walked out of the room. She came back within seconds and nodded to John. “Mr. Watson. Right this way.”

John followed her down a small hallway and hardly heard the woman when she said “You’ve got five minutes” as she opened yet another set of doors and John saw Sherlock. He was standing next to a wide open window, and the sunlight was hitting his curls. John tried not to actually gasp at the sight, since that seemed juvenile and silly but it was hardly contained.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, and he smiled at John. John had no idea what his face was doing, but he assumed he was smiling like a loon.

“Hey,” John said, trying to compose himself. “Guess I’ve got five minutes.”

Sherlock laughed at that, then sat down on one of the sofas in the room. There were three total, and John assumed one night in the hotel would cost him one month’s rent at least.

“Thank you for coming here. Sorry about everything outside. I thought all this would be done by now.”

“No, it’s fine. I do think I made a total arse of myself in front of one of my friends though,” John said with a laugh.

“Friend?” Sherlock asked, brows furrowing.

“Yes. Greg Lestrade.”

“Ah, the Yard’s finest. I take his badge to use on cases when he’s distracted,” Sherlock said, and John had to laugh at that.

As Sherlock spoke, a man entered the room. He was dressed in a three piece suit and had his hair slicked back. Sherlock rolled his eyes as soon as the man opened his mouth to speak.

“Are you with the Yard too?” the man asked. John went to reply but Sherlock cut him off.

“Yes he is. Works with Lestrade. John Watson, this is my brother Mycroft.”

“Pleasure,” John said, and almost stood up to shake Mycroft’s hand when he saw that he was completely ignoring John and electing instead to make himself a drink.

“What do you think of the case John?” Mycroft asked, and John coughed into his fist. He knew absolutely nothing of what was going on.

“Well, seems it could be dangerous. Are you uhm, worried about that at all?” John said, turning to Sherlock. Sherlock leaned back against the sofa and grinned, a mischievous glint coming to his eye that was absolutely endearing.

“No.”

“And, do you think you’ll find out who the…criminal is?” John said, hoping he was being vague enough. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Apparently he was not being vague enough.

“Well, we already know the criminal is James Moriarty. We’re taking him to court soon,” Sherlock clarified.

“Right.”

Mycroft took his glass of whiskey and left the room, clearly irritated by being near someone as idiotic as John. As the door closed behind them John huffed out a laugh.

“This is going brilliantly.”

“Like I said, I assumed this would all be over. But I’m glad you’re here.”

“Of course. I’m glad I was able to get your message. My roommate is very easily distracted, as you witnessed.”

“Yes, of course. John, I wanted to apologize.” John swallowed hard and tried to gauge Sherlock’s expression. He did not seem like a man who apologized often. “I kissed you. Out of nowhere. I wanted to be sure you were alright with the whole thing.”

“Yeah. Yeah, course. Absolutely fine.” God, it had been more than fine. John began to speak again but Mycroft came through the door once more. “So, the case,” John said.  “James Moriarty. Do you think the trial will go well?”

“We have enough evidence to put him away for a lifetime,” Sherlock said.

“Do be aware that Sherlock has had this criminal on his radar since he was a child,” Mycroft said from the corner of the room. He was sorting through papers. John wanted him to leave immensely.

“Of course. That’s quite a history.”

“Yes. Moriarty loathes me very much,” Sherlock said, forcing a smile. Mycroft left the room again and John let go of a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding.

“Sorry,” John said, laughing a little. “I am such an idiot. This whole scenario. It’s something that only happens in dreams. Good dreams. But it’s usually just…dreams. It’s a dream to even be here. With you again.” John felt himself blush and tried to keep his composure.

“What happens next in the dream?” Sherlock was completely composed, his eyes impossibly bright and beautiful, his hair messy and perfect with the infiltrating sunlight.

“Ideally. I would have the courage to stand up and sit next to you. Since that is the sort of thing one can do in dreams. And then I would, kiss the boy, I suppose.”

John could feel himself leaning forward. He thought for a moment that he would get up out of his chair and sit down on the sofa next to Sherlock, throw an arm around him, and kiss him. However, he got the chance to do precisely none of that.

“Time’s up I’m afraid,” the blond woman said, coming through the door. “Mr. Holmes, you’ve got your next meeting waiting.” The woman left briefly, and in this moment, John acted, as he assumed he would never get the chance again.

“Are you free tonight?”

Sherlock laughed a little, and shook his head. “No.”

“Of course.”

The woman came back in, and Greg was behind her. Sherlock held out a hand and John shook it, the action feeling all wrong for what had just taken place.

“It was so nice to see you. Can’t believe it’s you in fact,” Sherlock said, and John laughed as he let go of Sherlock’s hand, wanting nothing more than to stay just a little longer.

 

John tried to leave, feeling sort of raw and defeated. He knew it wasn’t a rejection like a usual one. The schedule of a famous detective was not really something he could control, and it wasn’t as though Sherlock didn’t _like_ him. But John wasn’t rich or famous. In fact, he was nobody, so it made sense really. On his way out, John got caught up by Greg and others from the Yard. Sally Donovan ranted and raved about how Sherlock seemed to be brilliant but was a total arsehole, and Greg kept trying to keep everything neutral and failing. John tried to walk away and out of the hotel several times but Mycroft was standing near the door, and he really did not want to make light conversation with the man.

After about an hour of John having his ear talked off the blond woman showed up at his side again and led him down a different hallway. “He wants to speak with you again,” she said, and John assumed he had misheard her until he was once again alone in a room with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock brushed his jacket off and placed his hands on his hips.

“That thing that I was going to do tonight, I’m not anymore. I canceled, said I had to spend the evening answering questions about the upcoming trial with John Watson from the Yard.”

John laughed, shaking his head in amazement.

“Great! Wonderful!” John said. Then he realized the date and wanted to throw himself out the nearest window.

“Oh Christ. Oh, shit.”

“What is it?”

“It’s um. It’s my sister Harriett’s birthday tonight. But, I’m sure I can get out of it.”

“No that’s fine.”

“No, really, she’ll understand.”

“No, I mean. If you don’t mind. I could go to a birthday party. Not my usual thing but this is also not…usual.”

“You want to come to my sister’s birthday party?” John said. “Just clarifying.”

“Sure. Why not?”

 

*

John only wanted to vomit a small amount. Ever since the great detective Sherlock Holmes had risen to fame, Harriett had talked of little else. "Isn't he so handsome?" she would say when the man appeared on the news. "Those cheekbones, the hair!"  "You're a lesbian Harry," John would remind her. "I'm a lesbian, not blind," she would say back, and John would bite his tongue. Harry loved pop culture. Ever since she had come home from AA she had had to find something to throw herself into, and celebrities had been her means of survival. It had been annoying at first, and John couldn't follow half of what she was talking about, but it was much better than Harry's previous, non-sober state. 

 

Greg was cooking this evening as Molly would be getting off work at the morgue late. He was making Harry's favorite: spaghetti in red sauce. Greg was a decent cook at best, and John was fearful that Sherlock, who must have been used to caviar served on golden plates at this point, would find the food inedible. 

Sherlock showed up at John's flat right on time. John made sure to meet him out on the porch, not wanting Phillip to catch a glimpse of the detective now that he seemed to have more of a grasp on his surroundings. 

 

"Hey, I'd let you in, but, well," John said, gesturing towards his door. Sherlock smiled and nodded, clearly not wanting to have to interact heavily with the lunatic that was John's flatmate. "Thank you for coming again."

 

"The birthday party of a complete stranger, I wouldn't miss it for anything."

 

As they began the short walk over to Greg and Molly’s place, Sherlock lit up a cigarette. It was a nice night out. There was a slight breeze, but the spring air felt nice on John’s face.

 

“How are you feeling? About the trial I mean,” John clarified. Sherlock shrugged, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth.

 

“We have indisputable evidence stacked up against him. But something is wrong. He wanted to get caught.”

 

“Wanted to get caught?”

 

“Yes. He was sitting perched and smirking when the police found him. He had just stolen the crown jewels, but he didn’t make a getaway. He knew what he was doing.”

 

A shiver ran through John and he shook his head.

 

“But you have him now. Which is good.”

 

“Which is good.”

 

They reached Greg and Molly’s house and John rang the bell. Greg threw the door open, mumbled a greeting, then promptly walked away. John could smell something burning in the kitchen and Sherlock laughed softly next to him. His laugh was a low rumble, and the sound made John’s chest tighten.

 

They made their way into the flat and Molly greeted them. “The sauce is proving a bit complicated.”

 

“Of course it is. No one should let Greg within a ten foot radius of a stove.”

 

Molly turned to Sherlock then, and John realized he really should have warned her. Molly knew all about Sherlock from Greg’s own stories as well as the news. At least Greg had worked with him on several occasions now. Molly was having a mild stroke upon realizing the detective was in her home.

 

“You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock nodded and held out a hand. Molly took it and immediately turned beet red.

 

Greg came back from the kitchen with a towel over one shoulder.

 

“Greg, you remember Sherlock,” John said. Greg raised one brow and then smiled at Sherlock.

 

“Oh lovely, it’s you, you absolute git. Do you want some wine?”

 

Sherlock laughed again. “I’d love some.”

 

John had heard that Sherlock could be difficult to work with. John could easily see him arguing with Greg, being sarcastic and far too blunt. The thought made John smile.

The doorbell rang and Greg turned. “Be right back.”

 

John knew that would be Harry. He had completely forgotten to warn her in any capacity and to his horror Harry walked into the room and immediately let “Holy fuck!” slip out of her mouth.

 

“Hello to you as well,” Sherlock said, and extended a hand.

 

“Christ, I’m so sorry,” Harry said, covering her hand with a mouth. “I just want you to know that I absolutely adore you. You’re the most handsome man in London, and I do think we could be best friends.”

 

Sherlock smiled, tight mouth, and his eyes narrowed.

 

“Okay Harry, perhaps we--” John began but Sherlock cut him off.

 

“Happy birthday.” Sherlock handed Harry a small box.

 

“Oh Lord, you got me a gift. Look, we’re best friends already.”

 

John sighed and looked towards Greg. “Can I help you in the kitchen?”

 

John stirred pasta noodles while Greg put a salad together. John didn’t love the idea of leaving Sherlock alone with his sister, but he also thought he might scream at Harry if he had to listen to her interrogate Sherlock within an inch of his life.

 

“Have you slept with him yet?” Greg asked and John nearly choked to death on his sip of wine.

 

“Of course not. No.”

 

“That means yes.”

 

“That means no, why would you think that was even remotely possible.”

 

Greg crossed his arms and raised his brows. “Three continents Watson.”

 

“That was a stupid nick name in uni. Shut it. The answer is no you complete dick.”

 

John moved to start setting the table with Harry.

 

“Could anyone tell me which way the bathroom is?” Sherlock asked.

 

Harry dropped a fork onto the table and ran to show him down the hall. As soon as they were out of the room Molly pounced on John.

 

“You didn’t tell us you were bringing Sherlock Holmes!”

 

“I hardly knew myself!”

 

“Goodness, I was trying to make small talk and I started talking about bruising on decomposing bodies….though thinking on it I think that he actually didn’t mind that very much.”

 

Harry made her way back to the table, a hand over her mouth, looking horrified.

 

“I don’t know what came over me, I just kept talking as he was unbuttoning his trousers. He had to tell me to leave.”

 

Greg threw his head back and laughed, while John swallowed down absolute terror. He threw back the rest of his wine and went to refill his glass. “You’re barbarians, the lot of you.”

 

Dinner went as well as it could have. Harry talked too much and when she pulled out her cigarettes Sherlock’s eyes lit up. Harry lit one for him and John was fairly certain it was the happiest moment of her life. Sherlock had a total of three glasses of wine and his cheeks were flushed red which was utterly adorable. Greg and Molly smiled at each other the entire dinner. John wondered how it had possibly taken them so long to get together.

 

“Okay,” Greg said. “I’ve got the last piece of cake for the saddest human in this room.”

 

Everyone turned to Harry and she laughed hard, nodding. “I am an alcoholic lesbian whose wife left her and is currently unemployed. Hand that slice over!”

 

“Oh, I dunno, I got cheated on a whole lot until I met the love of my life, and I have had to regularly work this this utter arsehole recently so,” Greg said, gesturing to Sherlock.

 

“Well, I work exclusively with dead people so I think my hat should be thrown in the ring,” Molly said, taking a sip of her wine.

 

“I got shot and lost my job six months ago. Like, I literally got shot and couldn’t be a surgeon anymore. I nearly died and now I’m useless. Please give me that slice of cake immediately,” John said, and everyone laughed mildly. This was how their group had always handled unfortunate circumstances. They just had to be open and laugh about everything. John leaned forward to take his reward.

 

“Well wait, what about me,” Sherlock said, taking a drag off his cigarette. Everyone was silent, unable to fathom what Sherlock would come up with.

 

“Pardon, you think you deserve the last slice of birthday cake?” Greg asked, leaning back in his chair.

 

“Yes, Lestrade, in fact I do.”

 

“Alright. Dazzle us.”

 

John tried to keep his face neutral, but he was wildly intrigued. He couldn’t imagine anything about Sherlock’s life being any less than perfect.

 

“You’ll have to prove it,” John said. “After all, this is a very delicious slice of cake. You’ll have to fight me for it.”

 

“Well,” Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. “I’m a recovering cocaine addict. I used to live on the streets because of it. I’m so single that I haven’t dated anyone since university. I absolutely loathe getting recognized on the street as it puts a real damper on many aspects of my career. For the last year every news outlet has been trying to know every aspect of my personal life and has been making up stories about who I am, almost all of which are false. I currently am fearful that an absolute maniac is going to do something terrible at any moment and I’m the only one who can stop him. So yes John, I do believe I deserve that slice of cake. So if you wouldn’t mind?” Sherlock held out a hand for the plate and John scoffed, shaking his head.

 

“Absolutely pathetic effort at that last slice,” John said, and the entire table burst out laughing.

 

 

 

 

After dinner, Sherlock and John helped Molly and Greg clean up the table and kitchen. Sherlock hugged Harry goodbye and John couldn’t help but think how sweet it was, that he was being so kind to someone he hardly knew. Sherlock told Greg he would be seeing him soon, and told Molly that it would be lovely to see her again. John didn’t know if he meant any of this, but it didn’t matter. He was saying those things for John’s benefit.

 

After Greg shut the door behind them, John heard both Molly and Harry shriek with delight. They had barely made it out the front door. John sighed.

 

“Sorry. They always do that when I leave the house.”

 

Sherlock chuckled, then ran a hand through his hair.

 

“So, Three Continents Watson?

 

John stopped in his tracks, stared at the pavement for a moment, then forced himself to look Sherlock in the eye.

 

“You heard that did you?”

 

“In fact I did.”

 

“Please ignore everything Greg said. University was just…university. It’s also not as if I intended such a nickname to stick. I didn’t. You know what. Just, erase the whole thing from your mind.”

 

“It is self-explanatory though yes?”

 

“Uhm. Yes. It’s true but it’s really. It’s...” John had never wanted to hide his sexual past so much until this very moment. He was at a total loss.

 

“You must be fairly charming then,” Sherlock said. John laughed and shrugged.

 

“I must be.”

 

“Is your sister really in recovery? Maybe we can exchange sobriety tokens.”

 

“She is. It’ll be a year in two months. I’m really damn proud of her actually.”

 

“You should be. Addiction is an ugly thing.  It’s impressive.”

 

They were silent for a beat, and John wracked his brain trying to remedy the tension.

 

“My flat isn’t far, if you wanted to stop in,” he ended with, and felt like kicking himself immediately.

 

“Too complicated. What are you doing in the morning?”

 

“Aren’t you busy tomorrow, with the upcoming trial?”

 

“I was. Now I’m not.”

 

 

 

 

 

John and Sherlock found themselves wandering around London, walking aimlessly and just chatting absentmindedly. John felt more calm than he had since had returned from Afghanistan. As they walked, they came upon one of the gated neighborhoods. John knew that inside there was a lovely garden with trees curling along the pathway.

 

“Let’s go in then,” Sherlock said.

 

“That’s just the trouble. It’s only open to the people who live there.”

 

Sherlock gave John a look that said _I’m London’s greatest detective and master sleuth. We’re going in._ “Doctor Watson, you were in war. You’re suggesting we shouldn’t hop over this fence?”

 

“Of course not,” John said, and found himself clutching the bars of the fence, trying to get a feel for what would be the best angle to climb over at. John grasped the bars, then got his footing. He got about halfway up the fence before he lost his grip. “Whoopsie daisies,” he said without a second thought, and Sherlock began to laugh so hard he had to grip his knees.

 

“I’m sorry. Did you just say ‘whoopsie daisies?’” Sherlock said, putting the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to stifle his laughter.

 

“No, no I’ve never said such a thing in my life,” John said, placing his hands on his hips.

 

“Sure. I didn’t hear you say whoopsie daisies like a small girl at all.”

 

John gave Sherlock a stern look, then put his hands on the fence again. Unfortunately, he slipped again, and once again uttered “Whoopsie daisies.”

 

Sherlock keeled over, unable to breathe properly for a full minute. John tried to remain stern and annoyed that he was in fact being laughed at, but ended up laughing in the end. Sherlock’s laughter was absolutely contagious.

 

“Move over Three Continents,” Sherlock said, and climbed over the fence with almost no trouble at all. John tried to protest, but was lost in awe.

 

“No fair, you’re all legs and…I’m very much not. You made it look far too easy.”

 

“Come on and catch up,” Sherlock called from the other side of the fence.

 

John sighed and then rubbed his hands together, thinking _third times a charm_ to himself. He grasped the fence and then flung himself to the top, slowly maneuvered himself over, and landed in the grass, only cursing a few times on the way over.

 

“Now,” John said, trying to regain his dignity, “What is so special about this garden that all of that was worth it?”

 

As soon as he spoke, Sherlock walked over and kissed John. This time, John did not numbly keep his hands on his hips. This time, he ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair, and then let one of his thumbs stray across Sherlock’s left cheekbone. All of John’s breath left his body at the same moment that his body felt as though it were on fire.

 

“That’s a pretty okay garden,” John said as he caught his breath, then kissed Sherlock again.

 

They walked around in the soft grass for hours. The only sound aside from their own voices were the crickets chirping in the distance. Even the hum of London traffic was blocked out by the trees surrounding them, and John had not felt so content since he had been holding a gun in the desert. It was a completely different kind of content, but it was a contentment he felt nonetheless.

 

They eventually climbed back over the fence and said their goodbyes. This time, John kissed Sherlock first. John thought he could kiss the man endlessly. They made a date to go to see a film the next day, which felt far too common for Sherlock to do, but at the same time Sherlock seemed to be desperate to do the mundane. John supposed fame would do that to a person.

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

The next morning, John couldn’t seem to find anything.

 

“Phillip, have you seen my wallet?”

 

“Wallet? No. John, did you know that Moriarty is going to trial soon.”

 

“Yes, in fact I did. Recall how you didn’t realize Sherlock Holmes was in your home a few days ago? Yeah, well now I need my wallet because I’m somehow going on a second date with him and as you can imagine, I would love it if it went really well.”

 

“I can’t believe you didn’t introduce us,” Phillip said.

 

“Yeah well, you seemed rather preoccupied with conspiracy theories at the time.”

 

“They’re just theories thank you very much.”

 

“Okay, well, I have to go. I’m just going to take this cash and hope for the best,” John mumbled, throwing a shirt on. His hair was hardly dry from the shower.

 

John dashed out the door and headed towards the theater. He paid for a ticket in a rush and met Sherlock inside, holding a package of candy and smirking at him from the middle row.

 

After the film, John found himself across from Sherlock eating pasta at a place called Angelo’s. Sherlock knew the owner, and Angelo himself had placed a candle between the two of them, saying that everything was on the house.

 

“Sherlock was the reason I didn’t go to prison!” Angelo declared, setting a glass of wine in front of John.

 

“But you did go to prison,” Sherlock clarified.

 

“Yes, but it would have been for much longer if not for you.”

 

Sherlock shrugged at the answer and sipped his wine, seeming content.

 

Halfway through the meal, they heard three Americans talking at the next table over. They were discussing the Moriarty case, and in a rather rude manner.

 

“Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes anyway? It’s not as if he’s even comparable to Dave Toschi.”

 

As the man said ‘Toschi’, Sherlock mouthed the name with him, as if he had heard this argument before.

 

“Holmes is a hack. It’s obvious that Moriarty has the whole thing planned out. I’m sure it’s all just a publicity stunt for the both of them. None of it’s real, it’s like wrestling. Not to mention have you seen how he has that twinkle in his eye? The guy is probably in and out of rehab on the daily.”

 

The three men laughed at their own jokes, and John felt anger well up inside him. The men had no idea what they were talking about. Sherlock was absolutely brilliant, and sitting not three feet away from them.

 

Sherlock had been humored moments before, but after the rehab comment his face had changed. He was upset, John could tell, and he wouldn’t stand for it.

 

“He gets all his brilliant ideas from a needle if you ask me,” one of the men said, and another round of laughter went round their table.

 

“Yeah, that’s enough I think,” John said standing up.

 

“John, really, there’s no need,” Sherlock began, but John was already off.

 

“Hello,” John said, walking up to the men. “I sorely wish I hadn’t heard your conversation, but unfortunately I did. And I’d just like to say, don’t you think that the man you’re talking about is a real person, and probably deserves a bit more respect than what you nobodies are giving him?”

 

“What are you his bodyguard or something?” one of the men asked, and John counted down from ten in his head.

 

“Hi!” Sherlock said from behind John. His voice was overly friendly and clearly sarcastic.

 

“Oh bloody hell,” one of the men said, dropping his fork onto the table. “Uh, real sorry--” he began, but Sherlock cut him off.

 

“No, my bodyguard here is just a bit sensitive. See, unlike me, he has a temper. But really, go on and say what you really think about me.”

 

One of the other men, clearly far too drunk to be in public any longer spoke up.

 

“Why don’t you go shoot up about it mate!”

 

It was in this moment that John lost control. He pulled the man out of his chair and punched him square in the jaw. Drunk or not, John wouldn’t stand for it. Sherlock laughed a little off to John’s right, and then the other two men were on both of them. John quickly hit the pressure points of one of them, rendering him useless, and Sherlock ducked, and then hit the other in the stomach. There were gasps and screams throughout the restaurant, and Sherlock and John were quickly thrown out with the men.

 

“Sherlock, stay out of here for a few days, okay?” Angelo said, his face sympathetic but firm. Sherlock nodded his agreement, but was also smiling like a loon.

 

By the time they were outside on the pavement, Sherlock was laughing so hard that his cheeks were red.

 

“I sure hope that doesn’t end up in the newspaper.”

 

“Don’t worry, it will,” John said, laughing as well.

 

“I should not have done that. What am I doing with you?” Sherlock asked, beaming at John as if he were the sun.

 

“I have absolutely no idea I’m afraid,” John said, and smiled back just as wide.

 

They walked back to the Ritz, laughing the whole way. At one point, John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock let it happen, holding just as tight as John.

 

Once they reached the hotel’s doors, Sherlock turned to John, suddenly serious.

 

“Do you want to come up?”

 

“Well. There seem to be a few reasons I shouldn’t,” John replied, tone light and teasing.

 

“You’re right. There are a lot of reasons. But do you want to come up?”

 

“Yeah,” John said, licking his lips. Sherlock smiled wide again.

 

“Give me five minutes?”

 

“Of course,” John said, nodding, not believing his luck.

 

John went inside the hotel and used the bathroom. He looked in the mirror, and straightened his shirt, and then ran a hand through his hair. He looked fairly good. He took the elevator up to Sherlock’s room and then knocked, the butterflies in his stomach running rampant.

 

“John,” Sherlock said as he answered the door. John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock briefly, feeling thrilled at the ability to do so.

 

“I can’t believe I can just do that,” John said, at the same moment that Sherlock whispered “You have to leave.”

 

“I’m sorry, what?”

 

“My…my fake girlfriend is here. You have to go.”

 

“Fake Girlfriend?” John asked, utterly confused. Sherlock was gay, anyone with eyes could see as much.

 

“Yes, my fake girlfriend Janine from Ireland is in the next room. So you have to leave now, I’m so sorry John.” Sherlock’s eyes were bright and filled with regret. John had to force his mind to catch up with how quickly his night was changing.

 

“Darling, who is it? Janine called from the other room. She rounded the corner and John saw a beautiful dark haired woman smiling in Sherlock’s general direction.

 

“This is…uhm…” Sherlock said, and seeing that Sherlock was at a total loss, John stepped in.

 

“It’s, uh, room service.”

 

“Oh! Lovely! Could you bring me up some really cold white wine?”

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” John said numbly. He couldn’t even look at Sherlock.

 

“Oh, and could you take the dirty dishes and trash as well? I’d appreciate it so much,” Janine said.

 

“Of course,” John said, and moved to take the dishes away.

 

“No, no, you don’t need to do that!” Sherlock said, and his voice sounded horrified but John still couldn’t look at him. It felt as though the pain directly in the middle of John’s chest would never leave. He only wanted the entire scene to end as soon as possible, so he took the dishes away. “No, Janine, you know I don’t think it’s his job to clear that up.”

 

“Dear, oh no, so sorry. I do apologize, what’s your name?” Janine asked.

 

“My name is….Harry,” John said.

 

Janine reached for her purse and then put a bill into John’s hand. “Thank you so much Harry, I really, really appreciate it.”

 

John finally chanced a look at Sherlock and his eyes were wide, and his mouth was hanging open slightly. He was just as much stuck in disbelief as John. At least there was that.

 

“Sherlock darling, c’mere,” Janine said, and put her arms around Sherlock’s neck. She then kissed him hard and hummed into the kiss. John held the dirty plates in his hands, unable to feel anything but a dark embarrassment. Then she asked, “Sherlock what are you going to order?”

 

“What?” Sherlock asked, hardly moving a muscle.

 

“You got room service, what did you want to order?”

 

“You know, I haven’t decided,” he replied, pointedly not looking at John.

 

“Well let him know, I want you all to myself,” Janine said, then made her way to the bathroom. Fake girlfriend or not, the relationship seemed at least on the surface to be quite real.

 

“I should leave,” John managed, still holding the damned dirty dishes.

 

“I’m so sorry John. I really, I really don’t know what to say.”

 

“I think goodbye would be appropriate,” John said, then made his way out of the hotel room. Fake girlfriend or not, he clearly wasn’t welcome anymore.

 

John walked out of Sherlock’s hotel room, still holding the dishes. He left them at the front desk, to the receptionist’s surprise, and then walked out of the Ritz. He stopped just outside the door, remembering Sherlock’s face as he’d asked John if he wanted to come up. Sherlock’s face had been so admiring, so lovely, his eyes and mouth gone all soft with his want. John ran a hand down his face and then walked away from the Ritz, back to his flat, and collapsed into bed, trying not to think of Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

Weeks after, John still found himself lost in thoughts of Sherlock. Whether he was ringing someone up at the bookshop or sitting at home with Phillip, Sherlock was always on his mind. John felt absolutely pathetic. He had fallen in love with someone who was essentially a movie star, what had he expected? The news about the trial with Moriarty was often on the television, and John would find himself watching the news obsessively just to see Sherlock’s face. He was not proud of himself, but he couldn’t help himself either. He missed Sherlock as if he had known the man for years. They hadn’t been together, not really, and it was entirely juvenile to be pining in such a way for a man that had never truly been John’s.

 

After two weeks of feeling utterly useless, even Phillip nagged at John to talk.

 

“Come on, it’s me Phillip. You can tell me anything!” Phillip’s hair stood up at all sides, which was a sign that he had been up all night researching conspiracy theories. John sighed and couldn’t believe he was resigning to telling Phillip his woes.

 

“There’s just…this boy,” John started.

 

“Ah, yes, I had a feeling,” Phillip said, waggling his eyebrows and pointing to John. John suppressed the urge to strangle him.

 

“Well. He is someone who can’t be mine and it’s as though I’ve taken love heroine and nothing else will ever suffice. Do you know what I mean?”

 

“Interesting. I do, I do. It’s like that time I was trying to tell Greg that the killer was absolutely connected to that alien abduction in Doncaster. But of course he wouldn’t listen. Like it’s all right there in front of you, but nobody will listen!”

 

John rolled his eyes and then stopped listening. He wasn’t able to entertain Phillip’s ideas. He was just too melancholy over Sherlock. Which drove him mad, no one had made him feel this way before.

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

John found himself pulled out to social gatherings by Greg, Molly, Harry, and Mrs. Hudson. All of them tried in vain to cheer him up. He went out flower shopping for the book store with Mrs. Hudson and he gave medical opinions to Molly over lunch. Eventually they all came together and formed a sort of intervention. They took John out for dinner, and John found himself under Greg’s stern gaze.

“You really didn’t know he had a girlfriend?” Greg asked.

“No. I didn’t even think he was the sort to want a girlfriend!” A jealous rage came over John at the memory of Janine kissing Sherlock in front of him and he wanted to bend his fork in half. “Did you all know?” he demanded then, looking around the table. No one would look him in the eye, and Harry bit her lower lip. “Christ,” John said, putting his head in his hands. “My life is in shambles because I wasn’t caught up with the Daily Mail.”

“I don’t think this was ever going to end well John,” Greg continued, doing his best to look apologetic. “He’s a bloody genius, extremely famous, and has a brother who basically runs the country. This is what happens when mere mortals play with the Gods.”

“I know. I knew it was all just…a fantasy. That’s all it could have been. But still. It was nice.”

“Not to worry though!” Molly piped up. “I have the perfect solution.”

“And what’s that?” John asked, only mildly concerned.

“Her name is Sarah. She’s very pretty and loves to hike. She’s a doctor too!”

“Lovely,” John said, sighing into his water glass. He didn’t think he had it in him, but it was worth a shot. What was there to lose?

 

 

*

And so began his string of very unfortunate dates. Greg and Molly would host these small gatherings, and John was always very glad that they were both there to take reign of the conversations. John met Sarah, Jeannette, Mary, Margaret, Lizzy, and Charles all within the span of two weeks. Charles was the only one who seemed to fit. He kissed John on the cheek at the door and said “I hope to see you again.” John nodded and shut the door to Greg and Molly’s flat. He then walked back to the living room to see Greg and Molly waiting for him, each with a drink in hand.

“Well?” Molly asked.

“He’s perfect,” John said, picking up his own glass of wine and shrugging.

“So what’s the problem?” Greg asked.

“I think you two forget how lucky you are. I mean, two people who love each other like you do? The chances of that happening are one in a million. Aside from the famous detective, I have loved only two people in my life. The first was my girlfriend in university who ultimately broke my heart when she moved to Ireland, and the second nearly died in action and he is now a total recluse who leaves his home perhaps twice a year.”

“John, I’m sorry. Do you want to stay over tonight?” Molly asked, fiddling with her wedding ring which she did when she was anxious.

“Sure. Might as well. All that’s waiting for me at home is a nutter conspiracy theorist.”

 

 

 

Molly and Greg went to bed shortly after they finished cleaning the kitchen, and John made himself a bed on the sofa. He had stayed over enough times over the years that he knew where everything was. He had hoped these dates would make him feel better, but they had only left him feeling hollow, trying to chase that feeling of excitement and adventure that Sherlock had left with him. Sherlock had seemed to understand John immediately, and it drove John made to know that more than likely he would never see the man again unless his face was plastered on a magazine.

John said his goodbyes to Molly and Greg and walked home in the morning trying not to feel too sorry for himself. He got home and showered, shaved, and prepared to open the shop. He was about to head out when his doorbell rang.

John opened his door and thought for a moment that he must still be asleep on Greg’s sofa. Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of him, his coat collar pulled up high around his face, hands in the pockets of his Belstaff. Sherlock gave him a stiff smile.

“Hello John,” Sherlock said. “Can I come in?”

“Of course!” John said in a rush, then opened the door fully. Sherlock stepped inside. There was something off about him. His bottom lip quivered, and his eyes looked red, as though he had been crying. When Sherlock removed his coat John saw that his hands were shaking. “Sherlock, what is it?”

Sherlock slung his coat over his arm and then sat down on John’s sofa. He looked as though he were trying desperately to curl into himself. John thought Sherlock should never look this way, so small and tired.

“Moriarty was found not guilty,” Sherlock said.

“What? How is that even possible?”

“I think he blackmailed the jury. But he has so much information about me John. Like he’s been collecting it all for…years. I don’t know how.”

“What information?”

“He released…photos of me. Photos of me using. Photos of me in crack dens. Photos of me on the street. There are….so many and it also appears that someone at some point filmed me. Putting a…needle into my arm. So essentially. My reputation and my career are ruined. No one is ever going to take me seriously. And he’s just out there. He’s out and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry to come here. I didn’t know where to go. The hotel is surrounded, my home is surrounded, and the idea of facing my brother right now. I mean, he’s always known. He’s put me into rehab more times than I can count but. He’s always so sad. Junkie little brother. So. I’m here. I know it’s been months John.”

“No. I’m glad you came here.”

“I was supposed to meet Lestrade today but I can’t look at him, he allowed me to consult when I was just starting and he brought me to so many cases. His reputation is in danger too, he’s the one who let me…” Sherlock trailed off, ran a hand through his hair, and for a second John thought he might throw something across the room. “I never wanted to be famous John,” Sherlock said, his mouth a hard line and his eyes so distant. John had never seen this look on his face before. “It was all a favor for my brother. Then somehow the media got a hold of the story. I didn’t want this. I was perfectly fine solving crimes without anyone ever knowing my name, without anyone paying me a cent. I didn’t want this. I love solving crimes. I adore the thrill of the chase, the endless possibility. I loved running around London. It was perfect. This is what I’m good at. I don’t want to stop. But now someone is trying to ruin my reputation. My career. My name. All of the hard work I’ve put in. All of the energy spent. It won’t matter, because now when people see me they will only see a pathetic addict who can’t even keep his own past in check. No one is going to take me seriously. Everyone will assume I’m untrustworthy. I’ll be…nothing again.”

“Don’t think about it,” John said, and put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “We’ll get it sorted.”

Sherlock nodded, pressing his lips together.

“What can I get you? Tea? A hot bath?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, a smile tentatively forming. “Both would be perfect.”

John sent Sherlock upstairs and laid out extra clothes and a towel for him. All of John’s clothes would be too small for Sherlock but he managed to find some of his larger sleeping shirts and a pair of sweatpants that would probably land at Sherlock’s ankles. While Sherlock ran a bath, Phillip came into the flat, holding the newspaper out.

“John, have you seen the news!” Phillip exclaimed. Then promptly made his way upstairs. Before John could stop him, he had opened the bathroom door.

“Hello, you must be Phillip,” Sherlock said from the tub. John ran a hand down his face. Phillip immediately turned around and closed the bathroom door. He took a deep breath in and out.

“John, is that Sherlock Holmes in our bathtub?”

“Yes it is,” John said from the stairs. Phillip promptly opened the bathroom door again.

“Just…checking,” Phillip said to Sherlock.

“Phillip please come downstairs,” John begged, his horror mounting.

Phillip miraculously obeyed the command. He then stood in front of John, placed his hands on his shoulders, and whispered “This is the best thing that’s ever happened.”

 

 

 

After Sherlock was washed and dressed, John made them tea and breakfast. He opened the kitchen window to let the breeze in and Sherlock picked at his eggs and toast. After a while Sherlock folded his hands on the table and looked John in the eye.

“I’m very sorry about last time.”

“Don’t worry about it,” John said, pushing his jealousy down.

“No. It was horrible. I hated every moment of it. She just flew in. I had no idea. She’s obviously not actually my girlfriend. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. She was with me so that she could get famous and I was with her because she had information about a previous case. We knew we were using each other. It was fine. In fact she knows I’m gay. But sometimes she likes to put on a show if she thinks we’re being watched. She didn’t know who you were.”

“Oh. Well. That does make me feel a bit better.”

“And you? Is there anyone?”

“Ha,” John said. “No. My friends made me go on too many dates as of late. They’ve all been quite terrible.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh and nodded, clearly pleased with John’s answer. “You know I have thought about you often.”

John licked his lips, and swallowed hard, trying not to let the words mean too much. John then shook his head, trying to shake it off.

“I have. It’s just that I’m not very good at this sort of thing. I never have been. And I don’t want this to end badly.”

“Of course.” John nodded again, then looked to the papers in front of Sherlock. “What’s this?”

“It’s Moriarty’s file. I’m trying to distract myself.”

“Perhaps I could help?” John offered. Sherlock beamed at John, then handed over the file.

John listened to Sherlock go over the case. Moriarty had apparently had a vendetta on Sherlock since he was twelve and was now set on trying to destroy him in every way possible.

“He’s released all of the most dangerous criminals that were previously locked up, he’s robbed numerous banks, millions of dollars stolen, and he’s done all of this with the touch of a button. He has a code of some sort. And now I think he’s going to try to kill me.”

“He’s going to try to kill you?” John asked, and anger coursed through him. He wanted to protect Sherlock. He was going to protect Sherlock.

“Most definitely. He came round to my flat when he was found not guilty, right after the trial. He told me it was always going to be just him and me. He said ‘I owe you a fall.’ He’s going to destroy everything I have, and then he’s going to kill me.”

“You just let him into your home?”

“I wanted to know what he was going to say!”

“You’re a madman.”

“Yes, I expect so.”

 

 

 

After they went over the case, John made a late lunch. Sherlock pointed at John’s wall and raised a brow.

“Can’t believe you have that picture.”

Sherlock was pointing to John’s print of La Mariee. He had inherited it from his mother. Marc Chagall and been her favorite painter. He told Sherlock as much. “Do you like Chagall?”

“Yes. It feels like what contentment should be. Floating through a dark blue sky. With a goat, playing a violin.”

John laughed. “Funny, I didn’t peg you for someone who enjoyed art.”

“I hardly understand why anyone does it. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it,” Sherlock confirmed, and took a bite of pasta.

 

 

 

As the day wore into evening, John could feel Sherlock watching him from across the room. John was doing a crossword, and Sherlock was staring at his phone, texting his brother. The TV was on low, and though they were hardly talking, John felt as though Sherlock were standing over his shoulder. He felt so drawn to him the entire evening he thought he would crawl out of his skin. John wanted to just close the gap between them. They had been dancing around each other all day.

Eventually, they parted to sleep. John walked Sherlock upstairs to his bedroom. At the doorframe, Sherlock stopped.

“Today was good. Given the circumstances I’m impressed that I was able to act normal at all.”

“I’m glad.”

John thought Sherlock would kiss him. He thought that the gap would finally close here, and God how he wanted it to. Instead Sherlock whispered a “Good night” and made his way into bed. John walked back down the stairs and laid down on his sofa. He rubbed at his temples and tried to will his desire away. Sherlock was not something he could have. This had already been established in months past. But it was so difficult when the man was upstairs in John’s bed. John tossed and turned until he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

His heart leapt in his chest. Could Sherlock really be coming downstairs? John calmed himself, then called out a soft “Hello?”

Phillip rounded the corner, and he was clothed only in his pants. John shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Hello!” Phillip said. “I was just wondering. You have been moaning about this boy for the past three months and now he’s here, yes?”

“Yes,” John confirmed. A headache was already starting to form.

“And he’s in your bed? And you get on well?”

“Yes!”

“Then what are you doing on the sofa?”

“Phillip, he’s in trouble right now would you just go back to bed! I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“Fine, sure. I just had to say my bit.”

John sighed as Phillip walked away. Only a few moments later John heard footsteps once again and John groaned into his pillow.

“Please, for Christ sake just sod off.”

“Oh, right,” Sherlock said. John bolted up at the sound of his voice.

“No! No no no not you! Sorry, I thought you were my flatmate.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, and joined John on the sofa.

This time, John wasn’t stupid. He didn’t wait around. Instead, he did what he had wanted to do all evening. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him. Then he kissed his neck, and let his hands wander up Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock gasped softly and John could hardly stand the sound.

“Wow,” John whispered, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“What?”

“Nothing,” John said, and let Sherlock take his hand and guide him back up to the bedroom.

 

 

 

 

*

In the morning, John woke to find Sherlock watching him. John smiled, then reached up to pull Sherlock down for a kiss.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning John.”

“How did you sleep?”

“Surprisingly well.”

Sherlock curled up against John and then ran a finger across John’s bullet wound scar. It was the reason he was back in London and not out in the desert saving lives. John didn’t like to look at it.

“How did it feel?” Sherlock asked.

“It was dizzyingly painful. Then I got very cold.”

“You nearly died.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve miraculously never been shot. I’ve been shot _at_ a lot. But nothing’s hit. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like.”

“It’s not a good feeling I can assure you.”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed the scar. It made John feel over exposed and very raw. He hoped Sherlock would never do it again and at the same time he hoped he would do it every day for the rest of their lives. And that was a frightening thought.

John turned to look Sherlock in the eye, and the detective’s face was so serious John grew worried.

“How does it feel, to be in bed with me?” Sherlock asked.

“I feel very lucky. Why?”

“Sometimes I think everyone in London wants me. The things that have been said about me. What I must be like in bed. People say these things about me as if they know me. Was I like what you thought I’d be like?”

“No,” John said. “I didn’t think you would be like…anything. You’re not just someone’s fantasy Sherlock. You’re more brilliant now than you’ve ever been.”

Sherlock smiled, nodded, then kissed John again.  

“Can I stay here for a while longer?” Sherlock asked.

“Stay forever,” John said at the same time the doorbell rang.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the buzzer. “I’ll get tea. You get the door.”

John threw on a shirt and made his way to the door. As he opened it, he was blinded by the flash of a camera. People were shouting at him, all at once, and he couldn’t make out a word. The press had found out where Sherlock had been hiding. “Jesus Christ,” John whispered, and slammed the door shut.

“Who was it?” Sherlock called from the kitchen.

“Uhm…” John trailed off. He was too shocked, and could hardly speak.

“Did you do something?” Sherlock asked, and made to open the door.

“Sherlock, don’t!” John said, but it was too late. Sherlock opened the door and the cameras and the shouting began again. Sherlock was so surprised that John had to pull him away from the door.

“For God’s sake. They found me. And they got a photo of you dressed like that.” John looked down. He was in a shirt and pants but nothing else. He nodded. “And a photo of me dressed like this. In your clothes.” Again, John nodded. “I’ve got to call my brother,” Sherlock said, and pushed past John.

Sherlock ran to his phone and immediately started talking.

“Yes Mycroft, the press found me. My brilliant plan was apparently not so brilliant. Will you please just help me?”

John ran a hand down his face, wishing he had the power to remedy the situation, even in some small way. Sherlock ran back up to the bedroom, cursing under his breath.

Phillip came rushing down the stairs.

“What’s going on?”

“I wouldn’t go outside,” John told him, and followed Sherlock upstairs.

 

Sherlock was throwing his clothes back on, pulling one silk black sock on over his foot. His face was a mask, and John couldn’t tell what the man was thinking at all.

“How are you doing?”

“How do you think?” Sherlock said. “The press has found me which means Moriarty has found me. The man who wants to destroy everything I hold dear now knows I spent the night with you. He knows where you live, and he’ll come for you too. Not to mention a mere forty eight hours ago photos from my dark past popped up everywhere, and all of London knows my darkest secret. Add this into the mix, I’m now sleeping with a man when I’m meant to be dating Janine. I look like a monster to anyone paying attention.”

“No one knows what happened just yet,” John said, trying to stay calm.

“I know exactly what happened. Your flatmate thought he could make some money and told everyone I was here. How else would the press know where I was?”

“Phillip wouldn’t do that,” John said, placing his hands on his hips. “Please, let’s just think about this.”

“There’s a reason I don’t trust people John. This is it.”

“Sherlock. Please sit with me.”

But Sherlock wouldn’t sit down. He was gathering all of his things and heading towards the door. John wanted to grab him, to make him stay. Just a few minutes ago John had told Sherlock he could stay forever. He had meant that. John put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, but Sherlock brushed him off, and his eyes were wild and angry.

“I can’t do this with you. Besides, this is a perfect scenario for you. Everyone will say ‘Ah, brilliant, you’re the bloke who slept with that dodgy detective. Well done you!’”

“Sherlock, that is really not fair,” John said, his own anger beginning to grow. Did Sherlock really think so little of him?

In lieu of a reply, Sherlock bounded down the stairs and threw his coat over his shoulders. John ran after him. “Sherlock, I’m begging you. Please stay. We can sort through this.”

“I don’t want to stay. I just want to go home.”

The doorbell rang again and Phillip called out “There’s a chauffeur outside!” from the foyer.

“Now, just stop,” John said, throwing his hands up. “This is completely mad behavior. All I’m asking for is a little bit of perspective.”

“I am mad, that’s the whole point,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. But John wouldn’t give up so easily.

“Listen. Less than a year ago my life was completely different. I used to be a bloody army doctor. I was being useful, saving lives and fighting and I will tell you now that I loved being there. I loved the war. I still miss it. But then I went and got shot, and I couldn’t be a surgeon and now I run a book shop which is absolutely ridiculous. What I’m saying is, in the scheme of things, nobody will care. Nobody will care about any of this in a week. The gossip will just be gossip. Even if Moriarty finds me, that doesn’t mean I’ll die. You can’t know that. So please, Sherlock, don’t go.”

“That’s incredibly easy for you to say. You’ve no idea what it’s like. Like I said before, I never wanted to be famous. Everything I do or say will come back to me whether it’s tomorrow or in three years. People do not forget your mistakes. People like me do not get to make mistakes, mistakes like the ones I made last night. Moriarty has already taken just about everything from me, I really don’t want to add you to that list.”

“You regret this. Right. Well, just so you know, I feel the opposite. I’m glad you came to stay with me.”

Sherlock looked at the floor and would not meet John’s gaze. Instead, he turned his coat collar up and walked out the front door and out of John’s life.

 

 

 

*

The next day, after John was able to collect himself, he sat down with Phillip.

“Anderson,” John said sternly. He rested his head on his chin, hardly having the energy to be angry at what he knew was about to happen.

“I may have told a few people at my last club meeting.” Phillip was of course referencing his club that swapped crime stories and conspiracy theories. Normally it was a harmless group of nerds getting overly excited about homicides over a few pints. This time it had cost John everything.

“Dammit Anderson.”

Phillip cringed a bit, then put a hand on John’s shoulder.

“I’m really sorry.”

 

 

 

 

*

The days seemed to all blend in to one another. Spring to summer, summer to winter, and then spring again. Harry went through several girlfriends, and she became more heartbroken after each ended. Greg and Molly were beginning to try to have a baby, and eventually Molly became pregnant. The shop continued to do decently, but John still thought of Sherlock every day. It was a dull ache that existed in the back of John’s chest at all times. He would wonder what Sherlock was doing each day, and he would think back to the one night that he got to have with him. It had all been too perfect, and John felt as though he would have done anything to get him back. Over the course of a year, Moriarty had never been caught, but John had never heard or seen anything out of the ordinary. He did not think he was ever in any danger, and even if he had been, he was happy to be at risk if it meant he had his memories of Sherlock Holmes.

John tried not to read the news or look closely when Sherlock was mentioned on television. He knew that Sherlock was safe and still solving crimes. He had apparently been working on helping Lestrade catch a string of bank robberies. Lestrade told John that Sherlock seemed fine, though he had become harsher with people around the Yard. “I think he feels he has to be totally serious and as cold as possible. He doesn’t want anyone to think he’s not capable of doing his job,” Lestrade had said. John had only nodded, the idea of the gentle man he had known briefly coming off as only cold and calculating made John very sad. 

 

 

 

One day in late spring, Harry came round to the book shop. Mrs. Hudson greeted her and Harry beamed at them both as she held a small piece of paper in her hand.

“You’re going to thank me for this until Christmas,” Harry declared. This is the number of Sherlock Holmes’ brother, Mycroft.”

“That’s really not possible,” John said. “The man works very high up in the government. I’m pretty sure he could shut down half of Europe with the snap of his fingers if he wanted. How and why do you have his number?”

“Because he gave it to me himself.”

John scoffed, not believing a word of it.

“You saw Mycroft Holmes on the street and he just gave you his phone number?”

“That’s actually exactly what happened.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He said he wanted to speak with you.”

“So why wouldn’t he just give me his bloody number?”

“I think he likes to be mysterious,” Harry said, handing the paper over. “Look, now you can talk to Sherlock. I know you think about him all the time. I’ve got to run, I’m already running late for work.” Harry left the shop and John stared down at the number. He wanted to call it. Of course he did. But he also didn’t know if there was really any point. John had had a perfect night with Sherlock. But it had really just been one night. What was one night to the rich, famous, brilliant, and beautiful Sherlock Holmes? Surely he had forgotten all about John. John dropped the piece of paper into the bin, and tried not to think about it for the rest of the day.

 

 

John thought he was rid of the possibility of talking to Sherlock again entirely until it was time to close the shop for the day. Right as Mrs. Hudson was leaving, she tapped John on the shoulder and smiled softly at him.

“Hey Mrs. H.”

“John dear, I confess I’ve done something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I just…I have known you for over a year now. I’ve come to think of you as a son. I think you hang the moon, and I just want you to be happy. So I stole that little piece of paper out of the bin this morning, and I called the number.”

“You did what now?”

“I did it, I admit it. John, dear, Mycroft Holmes is in the back office.”

John stammered, and felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest.

“I don’t believe it.”

“I’m sorry dear. I know you and I know that love is not easily found. I just couldn’t help myself.” She then stood on her tip toes, kissed John’s cheek, and left the book shop.

John turned to go to the back office, having no idea what to expect or what to say to the older Holmes. He had only met him once very briefly.

“Good evening Doctor Watson.”

“Hello Mycroft,” John said, and did not extend his hand. He could tell there was no need for formalities.

“Please sit. I’ll keep my visit brief.”

“Why might you be in my book shop?”

“You and I both know why I’m here.”

“I actually really don’t know.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and the expression was so familiar John couldn’t help but smile.

“We’re here to discuss my brother.”

“I didn’t realize there was anything to discuss. The last time I saw him he made things pretty clear, and I haven’t spoken to him in months. I’m sorry I just. I don’t understand.”

“John, my brother is a very stubborn man. He is very smart and can be, when he wants to be, very kind. But he is also very unknowledgeable in certain aspects of life. John, do you know the last time my brother had a relationship of any kind?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“The answer is never.”

John swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. Could that be true? John thought back to his time with Sherlock. He remembered how Sherlock had touched him so softly, how he had kissed him like he would never be kissed again. John thought: yes, it could be true.

“I didn’t know that,” John said.

“Yes, well, like I said. My brother is not knowledgeable in all subjects. With regard to relationships, my brother knows very little. I know my brother very well. I know what he’s like, and I have never seen him be the way he is now that he has met you. Do you see what I’m saying?”

“I think so,” John said, wanting nothing more than to see Sherlock and hold him.

“My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What then might we deduce about his heart?” Mycroft said, eyes boring into John’s skull.

“I don’t know,” John said, but he thought maybe he did know.

“My brother will be in London for a press conference soon. I have texted you the address. I think you should attend.”

“I’ll think about it,” John said. Mycroft tilted his head, and John nodded. “I want to see him. I do. I just don’t know how he’ll react to seeing me.”

“Why don’t you just go and find out?”

“Right.”

Mycroft stood up from John’s desk, picked up his umbrella, and walked out of the shop. John sat in the office for a few minutes, trying to compose himself. He was going to see Sherlock again.

 

 

 

 

*

The conference took place at a hotel in north London. John took a cab to the venue and tried not to sweat through his jacket. He wondered if he had ever been more nervous than he was in this moment. Maybe on his first date when he was a teenager. Mycroft had left him the address and a time to get there. It would be a few hours before the conference began, but Sherlock would be there preparing.

When John got to the venue’s doors, a security guard stopped him.

“Do you have a press pass?”

“No, but I’m here to see Sherlock Holmes.”

“If you don’t have a pass I can’t let you in.”

“I am a friend, I’m not just…looking for him.”

“I can’t let you in.”

“Of course,” John said. As he was getting ready to walk out and come back after the conference began, Sherlock came through the venue’s doors. He was walking so quickly that he nearly ran into John, and they were so close together that John could have wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s middle if he had chosen to.

“John,” Sherlock said, and his voice was colder than John remembered it being. But his eyes were soft and his cheeks were growing pink.

“Hey. Sorry to sneak up like this. Your brother, he actually told me you would be here. I hope this is all right.”

“You spoke to Mycroft?” Sherlock said, and pulled John away from the security guard and away from the doors.

“Yes. I didn’t plan to but it just sort of happened.”

“I don’t have a lot of time right now. I have to get back inside very soon. I was just stepping outside to have a cigarette. But if you could wait?”

“Sure, sure,” John said, feeling as though he would agree to anything as long as it bought him more time with Sherlock.

After the security guard saw John speak with Sherlock he let him into the venue. There were tables set up and John decided to sit in the corner of the back row. John’s head felt as though it were spinning. Sherlock had been just as beautiful as the first time John had seen him. John had thought that he had moved on, at least a little. It was now embarrassingly clear that that was not the case.

 

As Sherlock came back into the venue he was talking with another man. There was just enough of a wall and John was far enough across the room that Sherlock couldn’t see that John had come into the room.

“So you think you know how Moriarty got all of his information about you?”

“I think it was my brother actually,” Sherlock said. “I think he was giving Moriarty information on me so that he would talk and give Mycroft information that he needed. I decided it’s not worth being angry at him. He has his methods and I have mine.”

“Jesus, Sherlock!”

“Victor, I really don’t see any point in fighting with my brother. He always gets what he wants.”

“Still though. Say, who was that bloke you were talking to?”

“Oh. Nobody. It’s sort of awkward really. I actually don’t know what he’s doing here. He said Mycroft told him to come here. I think Mycroft was trying to make up for what he did but, I don’t think he understood the situation fully.” Sherlock and Victor then walked a bit farther up towards the tables, and John decided to leave before he could become any more embarrassed than he already was. He left quickly, and Sherlock was none the wiser.

 

 

 

*

The next day, John opened the shop like usual. During his lunch hour he began cooking the books, and tried not to stress too terribly that the shop was definitely down for the month of April.

“John dear, so sorry to bother you, but you have a delivery up front,” Mrs. Hudson said from the office door.

“Mrs. H., is there any way you could take care of it?”

“Normally I would, but this is not something for the shop. This is something for _you_!”

“Right. Okay. I’ll go out,” John said, standing up from the desk. He shook his head as he walked to the front, thinking he was going to make Mrs. Hudson go on a biscuit run shortly.

When John reached the front, he stopped in his tracks. Standing before him was Sherlock, wearing a purple button up and looking radiant. John thought his heart was going to stop.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, and somehow he sounded nervous. “You disappeared yesterday.”

“Yeah, yeah I had to leave. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“How are you?” Sherlock asked. The fact that Sherlock of all people was attempting small talk made John know that this visit wasn’t an ordinary one.

“Oh, I’m good. Phillip has been driving me mad as usual but other than that. But you! Seems as though you have kept busy. You’re out there, saving the world. Stopping one criminal at a time.”

“Oh no, it’s mostly nonsense I assure you. I stopped leaving my flat if it was under a six.”

“A six?”

“Oh, I have a system. I number cases, one through ten. One being very boring, ten being criminal mastermind.”

“I see.”

“I got word yesterday that it’s quite possible that Moriarty is in Russia. So I’m going there. But, I brought this for you.” Sherlock gestured down and John saw that it was a framed painting, wrapped up in brown paper.

“Oh, thank you. Should I open it now?”

“Oh, God, please don’t. I’d be fairly embarrassed.”

“Okay,” John said, laughing lightly. “I’ll wait. I have no idea what it’s for but thank you all the same.”

“I have had it for some time. I purchased it after I left your flat actually. I am horrified by how I acted last we were together, and because of that I haven’t tried to contact you. Then I saw you yesterday, and figured it was about time I gave it to you.” Sherlock looked at the floor, and then looked directly at John, and it was though Sherlock could see John’s soul. “The thing is, John.” Sherlock paused, and looked as though he might have a stroke.

“What is it? The thing?” John asked, and at the same time, a customer appeared in the doorway. “Don’t even think about it!” John exclaimed, and pointed a finger back out the door. “Just go away immediately. Go away right now.”

The man looked utterly confused but left all the same.

“You were saying?”

“Yes.” Sherlock steepled his fingers at his mouth and then pressed on, despite how pained he looked. “I have to leave tomorrow. But, I was thinking. If I didn’t have to leave, would you let me see you? A little or, a lot?  We could see if…if you could like me again.”

John’s heart was hammering in his chest. He felt as though this was a dream, surely he was having some sort of vivid hallucination. But then he recalled the day before. Sherlock hadn’t even wanted him there yesterday. What had changed in twenty four hours? John felt confused beyond belief, and he was hurt too, if he was honest.

“Yesterday. Yesterday you spoke to a man named Victor. He asked you who I was and you said nobody. You said you didn’t know why I had come to see you. I did hear that Sherlock. I was just round the corner.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled together, and he stammered, trying to find words.

“You expect me to tell everyone in London all my business? I simply can’t, I had already put you at risk. My job isn’t exactly danger free. I don’t want everyone knowing about you John.”

John crossed his arms, sighed, and did the unthinkable. It was not what he wanted to do, but it was what he felt he had to do. After all, he had spent the better part of a year pining after a man who he had spent one night with. One absolutely wonderful night with, but logically, it had just been the one night.

“Sherlock, look. I consider myself to be a fairly level headed man. I’m not often in and out of love. But, can I say no to your request?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and he smiled at John, though that seemed like the last thing he wanted to do. “Of course. I’ll just leave now. It was so nice to see you John.”

“It was good to see you as well,” John said, feeling strange about the whole thing. His stomach and chest were doing funny things he was trying to ignore, and his mouth was incredibly dry. “Sherlock. With you I. I’m in moral danger. It all seems far too good to be true, you seem to be the perfect person for me. But you are who you are and I fear very much that, were I to entertain this idea of being with you, I would never recover should it end badly. I just really think I would be totally destroyed if this all went south. You would, I am sure, be perfectly fine in the end. Given your turned up coat collar and your cheekbones, and your insane intellect. You are the most wonderful person I’ve ever met. You would be fine. But um, I don’t think I’d survive it.”

“Good decision,” Sherlock said, and it came out so softly that John almost missed it entirely. “But John. The fame? It isn’t really real. And please don’t forget. I’m also just a boy. Standing in front of a boy. Asking him to love him.”

John had no response to Sherlock. He only felt a quiet panic rising within him. John felt so in love he was dizzy, but he made no reply. He only nodded at Sherlock, knowing that he couldn’t be wrong about his decision. Sherlock was famous, and a genius. John would never be able to measure up.

“Goodbye,” Sherlock said, then leaned down and kissed John’s cheek. John closed his eyes, not wanting to see Sherlock leave the shop. He knew this time had to really be the last time. He would never see Sherlock again. This was going to be the end of it.

 

Once Sherlock walked out, John picked up the painting and took it into the back office. He unwrapped it carefully and lost his breath when he saw what it was. It was La Mariee by Chagall. John knew it was the original. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind.

 

 

 

*

After the shop closed for the day, John gathered everyone. He gathered Molly, Greg, Phillip, Harry, and Mrs. Hudson all into his flat. He described everything that had happened between himself and Sherlock, word for word. When he was done, he looked around the room at his friends.

“I was right, yes?” John asked, desperate for approval.

“Of course!” Molly said. Everyone followed suit, nodding and saying how John was completely correct.

“I mean, when all is said and done he’s nothing special,” Harry said. “I almost witnessed him take his trousers down and it didn’t look like anything extraordinary was happening down there.”

“It’s an excellent decision. I’ve worked with him on a regular basis and he’s a complete madman, totally not worth the time,” Greg said, and John stamped down on the part of himself that wanted a madman. A madman went perfectly with a bloke who missed being at war.

“He was a bit too wild if you ask me, like he would shoot holes in the wall if you let him,” Mrs. Hudson said, nodding her head.

“Great, perfect. Thank you all.”

At that moment, Phillip ran through the door.

“Sorry I’m late!” he said, carrying a baguette and a head of cauliflower. “What did I miss?”

“John has just turned down Sherlock Holmes,” Harry said from her chair.

“You daft prick,” Phillip said, and he looked more serious than John had ever seen him before.

“No, no, really it’s actually quite sensible,” Harry said, nodding at Phillip. Phillip was shaking his head.

“That painting…it isn’t the original is it?” Molly asked. She pushed her hair back off her face, her ponytail coming loose after a long day at the morgue.

“I actually think it is,” John admitted.

“Just to clarify, he said he wanted to be with you?” Greg asked.

“Yes, yes he did.” John almost couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth. “It was sort of sweet, really. I know he’s famous and probably knows how to act for the press, but he said that he was just as famous as he could be but also that he was just a boy….standing in front of another boy, asking him to love him.”

Everyone looked at him blankly. No one moved to speak. Not even Molly, who was always the voice of reason. Harriett’s cigarette in between her fingers as her mouth fell open in shock, the smoke filling John’s apartment. Phillip fully had his face in his hands. Greg had his lips pressed together in a hard line, as if he were willing himself not to speak.

“Fuck it, I’ve made the wrong decision haven’t I?” John said to the room. John looked to Phillip, who he knew would be the only truly honest one in the lot.

“Yeah,” Phillip agreed, and vigorously nodded his head at John’s statement.

“Right. Greg, how fast can you go with the sirens on?”

 

 

 

 

*

Greg sped to John’s flat and everyone piled in.

“Where are we going?”

“All I can think of is the Ritz, it’s where he last stayed.” John sat between Harriett and Mrs. Hudson, while Greg and Molly were in the front and Phillip was pushed to the storage area of the car. Everyone argued about the route until finally Greg lost his cool.

“I’m deciding the route. I’m the damned head detective at the Yard. I know which streets are which. James Bond never had to put up with this shit,” Greg said as he made a right turn.

The sirens helped, but Greg still nearly caused several accidents. He was trying to move as fast as he could and he was working with limited knowledge as he wasn’t on duty. After many minutes of honking and brake squealing, Greg parked and John dashed out of the car.

John ran into the Ritz, hoping against hope that Sherlock was still in the building.

“Is Mr. Holmes still in the building?” he asked the front desk clerk, who only shook her head.

“He checked out this morning I’m afraid.”

“Okay, what about a Basil?” John asked in desperation.

“No sir, nobody under either of those names is here. Though there was a Mr. Chagall in earlier. He checked out about an hour ago, and I believe he’s holding a press conference at the Savoy in about thirty minutes.” The receptionist winked at John completely on the sly, and John was so happy he pushed himself over the front counter and kissed her cheek.

“Thank you so much,” he said, then dashed out of the hotel and back into Greg’s car.

The traffic on the way to the Savoy was terrible. Greg was stuck at a light about ten blocks from the venue, and John worried that he would miss the entire thing. He had no idea when it had started, and Sherlock was going to leave for Russia in a matter of hours.

“Okay John, this is me, remedying my mistake,” Phillip said from the back, then climbed over Harry’s lap and out of the car. He walked directly into London traffic, and began directing cars. John started to laugh, not really believing that Phillip was in the middle of the road, nearly getting hit every ten seconds because he was trying to help John. Phillip put a halt to traffic, then gestured for Greg to hit the gas. Greg didn’t waste a second and took off. John stuck his head out the window, and waved out to his flatmate.

“Thank you Anderson!” John called, and Phillip waved back.

 

 

 

When they reached the Savoy John jumped out of the vehicle and made his way to the front desk.

“Which way is the press conference?” he asked, hoping no one would look at him too closely.

“Are you an accredited member of the press?” the receptionist asked.

“Yep!” John lied, refusing to waste any more time. John went into his pockets and pulled out one of Lestrade’s badges. He had taken it weeks ago, remember how Sherlock had said he had taken some of Lestrade’s badges when he wasn’t looking. He flashed it the receptionist and he was immediately pointed to the direction of the conference.

John ran to the room, getting held up once by a locked door but finally finding his way inside. The venue was packed, and when John looked up to the front he saw Sherlock, looking as radiant as ever.

People were yelling, raising their hands, trying to get the attention of Sherlock. Sherlock had a mediator who was answering most of the questions. Sherlock meanwhile seemed to be nodding in agreement with everything he said. Hands reached to the sky, and the mediator pointed towards the middle of the room.

“How much longer are you staying in the UK?” One reporter asked.

“Mr. Holmes is leaving tomorrow for a very important MI6 mission,” the mediator responded, and John’s heart leapt. That wasn’t Sherlock’s choice, that was Mycroft. “Which is why we need to round things up, final questions now.”

A reporter in blue was chosen, and he smiled at Sherlock before he asked the question. John sort of wanted to punch him just for being there.

“The last time you were in London there were some fairly graphic photos taken of you and a John Watson. Would you care to comment about those photos?”

The mediator went to speak but Sherlock tapped him on the shoulder and shook his head. Instead, Sherlock spoke with his hands neatly folded in front of him.

“He was a friend. We are still friends, I hope.”

After Sherlock’s response, the crowd went wild and John found himself lifting his own hand to ask a question.

“Ah yes, you there in the brown jacket,” the mediator said, pointing towards John, and John couldn’t believe his luck.

“Yes. Mr. Holmes. Are there any circumstances that you and this gentleman might be more than just good friends?” John asked, and Sherlock found his gaze. Sherlock bit his lip as he watched John, then took a deep breath before answering.

“I had hoped that there would be, but I was assured there were not,” Sherlock replied, his mouth going soft. He looked hopeful but also like a newborn baby bird, frightened and trying to find a ledge to safety. John loved him intensely in that moment.

“But what would you say if--” John began, but he was cut off by the mediator.

“I’m sorry, but we can only take the one question please.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock said into the microphone, never breaking eye contact with John.

“I was just wondering if, it turned out that this person uh…” John trailed off.

“His name was Watson!” someone yelled from the crowd.

John nodded. “Right. If this Watson person had realized that he had been a daft prick, and he begged you to reconsider, you would in fact then…reconsider?”

John thought he was going to throw up. He thought his hands would never stop shaking. He hoped against hope that he wasn’t wrong about this.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, smiling into the answer. “I believe I would.”

“That’s excellent news,” John said, and smiled wide as Sherlock beamed down at John from the table.

Sherlock leaned across the table and spoke with his mediator. The mediator nodded, then said “Andrew, if you’d like to ask your question again?”

“How much longer are you staying in the UK?” the reporter repeated, and John couldn’t help but smile brightly, laughing a little at his luck.

“Indefinitely,” Sherlock said into his microphone, all the while keeping eye contact with John. John laughed, couldn’t help himself. He was so in love he thought he might die from happiness.

That was when reporters started to realize just who John was. He was that very Watson from the photographs, and the very person who had changed Sherlock’s mind. Reporters began to turn to John and took his photograph. Some began to bark questions at him, and as the camera flashed John ignored all of them, feeling nothing but relief as the love of his life smiled back at him from the podium.

 

 

 

*

John and Sherlock got married on a Saturday afternoon in September. Sherlock had always wanted a fall wedding. He was not partial to the heat, and refused to get married on a beach somewhere. After all, they could have spent their entire lives on a beach had they wanted to.

Sherlock was the perfect groom. He was the perfect man in all aspects, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed to John how Sherlock had let go of all control and had let someone else plan his wedding. For a while, Sherlock had been all controlling. He had been spending his evenings yelling at caterers and scolding cake makers. In the end, he had given up, and had only rested his head on John’s shoulder during their first dance as husbands, letting all of his worries fall to the wayside.

“You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, you know that right?” Sherlock said as he leaned his tall frame onto John’s much shorter one.

“I’m glad. You’re the best thing to happen to me too,” John said as he twirled Sherlock to the left.

Mrs. Hudson had ended up walking John down the aisle. Though they had argued back and forth about who would be waiting at the aisle, it had all boiled down to Mrs. Hudson. Both of John’s parents were deceased, and both of Sherlock’s parents were very much alive. Sherlock had insisted that Mrs. Hudson play a large role in the ceremony. After all, the woman owned properties all over London and was giving them an enormous discount on 221 B Baker Street.

“I want you to have it,” she had said to John, holding his hands in her own. “I am so happy for you, and your detective needs to live in the heart of London.” They had agreed to live in the flat with an incredibly discounted rate if only Mrs. Hudson would walk John down the aisle. John had never felt luckier, walking arm and arm with his co-owner and new found landlady.

 

 

Sherlock was famous, there was no doubting that. John could hardly go anywhere without being seen. But truthfully, John loved it. He loved helping Sherlock with cases, and he loved the danger that came along with each case. At times, John found himself completely consumed by a case, just like Sherlock was. Some evenings they stayed up until the sun rose trying to sift through a case. These were the nights when John would also kiss Sherlock senseless, and take him to bed, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> clearly my life is just a little derailed as i took a week of my life to write this. i have never had so much god damned fun with a writing project in my entire life, except for maybe my graduate critical thesis on horror films. anyway, if you made it this far, thanks! i just love hugh grant a lot! you can follow me on tumblr @ blairwiches, or on twitter @ jimmysbluess, i like to yell about my passions
> 
> also, it should be known, that i take requests


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